


nothing gold can stay

by spacegirlkj



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, if you like prose you've come to the right place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 09:33:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8051203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegirlkj/pseuds/spacegirlkj
Summary: artists are, by nature, selfish.(or, an artist with an ego meets a boy as stunning as the sun).





	nothing gold can stay

**Author's Note:**

> holy fucking shit. i am so proud of this, so happy with how it turned out.  
> thank you to the oihina group chat for being my hype squad, and i hope everyone enjoys this~

Artists are, by nature, pretentious assholes. 

It’s fact, as true as the rising sun and the dark side of the moon. Oikawa puffs his plume of feathers, rubs the charcoal that's stained his fingertips, and charms his way into the category of stuck up easily, with self proclaimed manipulation and narcism running deep through his veins. It's normal, it's what he is. Bubbly champagne, crisp button down shirts and curve hugging pants, the sex that comes afterwords. When it’s over, he scrubs it away, returns to the one bedroom apartment he owns in the dingy part of town, the only one close to affordable. The shirt is secondhand, his pants thrifted, and _Moët & Chandon_ is washed down with wine so dry it tastes like dirt. Bruises fade to yellow, and skin becomes stained with golden oil paint instead.

Such is his life, he supposes. 

It isn’t a bad way to live, he thinks. A living room, sporting easel and tubes of paint rather than a television. There aren’t any windows, and the flat beside him reeks of weed almost constantly, so much so that the stench creeps through the walls and into his workspace. Oikawa scrunches his nose, pushes his glasses higher up his nose, and lights a candle. Better, he thinks.

The piece laying on the easel is half finished, the aqua base half dry to the touch. Oikawa finds pride in his patience, but today, his hands are itching to touch the brushes, to do something other than pick at his nails. 

(He’d rather have paint than bloodstains any day.)

Oikawa almost scoffs at the paint, as if a deadline is enough to make the paint dry. He bites his lip, bounces his leg. The lack of stimulation is becoming suffocating, his head closing in on itself in anticipation.

He sits, on the wood floor, waiting. When he finally brings his fingertips to canvas and they don't come away blue, he sighs in relief. His supplies are set, hands more than ready enough to move. Shades of green flick across the aqua, staining it deeper. From the flat over, he can here the steady thump of 90s and early 2000s R&B through his walls. The colour is warm, and in its tribute, he paints the white caps gold as he hums the chorus of _suga suga_ and _say my name._

He half-heartedly feels the urge to smoke something, but pushes it down, swipes teal across the shades of blue and imagines that he's getting high off of his neighbours weed instead. The scent is distracting, and the impulsive part of his brain wants to light the building aflame, but the bigger part of him focuses on the piece in front of him, thick stokes swirling into one another. It's a tsunami, not only the painting, but the way he feels. The urge to eat wet paint is pushed down as something pressuring settled in his bones. Oikawa seeks catharsis, and in a second, he knocks the paints onto the ground. The tubes clatter, a few leak, staining dark chocolate wood with permanent hues. It does little for his mood, but the clattering sound compliments well enough. 

He thinks, _I am nothing compared to what I make_ , and pulls the half drunk bottle of wine from the counter. Cherry red wine tasting grey, the stretch of mary-jane long since imprinted in his memory. 

—

It’s a particularly dreary day when he meets Hinata, on the corner of where an alley leads from Yonge to Bay Street. Oikawa is dressed as if he’s come from Yorkdale, in goodwill formal garments and black jeans that have seen better days. They’re splattered with paint, chartreuse, and when Oikawa goes to rub his neck, his fingers come away purple. 

A short boy emerges from the alley, bleary eyes, ginger hair wild in every direction. The smoggy haze mixes with the slight drizzle, sending chills through Oikawa’s faux fur coat, and it’s clear the boy in front of him is shivering too. Oikawa surveys him; he’s wearing a sweatshirt long enough to be a dress, and platform sneakers. His posture is submissive, the way his eyes flicker from Oikawa’s lips to his face analytical, deceiving. There is purple on his neck too, dull violet blooming, though Oikawa supposes is for different reasons than him.

Oikawa extends his hand, slipping a charming smile onto his face. He introduces himself as if the boy was a buyer, a rich trophy spouse with millions in their pockets and a fine eye for art. Oikawa thinks for a moment, that he must be the art, his eyes illusive and smile mysterious enough to spark curiosity. He thinks this, until the boy steps out from the shadows, eyes sparkling despite his apprehensiveness. His lips are slightly swollen and puckered strawberry red, caramel eyes the warmest thing in the cool light. Oikawa is no longer the seller, but the buyer, being charmed like a snake by a boy with wild red hair and skin like a masterpiece.

He introduces himself, Hinata, sunshine and comets in a city where you can’t see the stars. He’s lovely in the way diamonds are; precious, delicate, as strong as anything else. Oikawa is enamoured by his mystique, the way Hinata’s posture holds another motive, the glint in his eyes and the way he plays with the sleeves of his sweater.

“How much do you want,” Oikawa inquires, leaning against the brick wall with a smile on his face. “To come to my apartment for a favour?”

Hinata shrugs, lips pouted, eyes still unwary. “Depends, what do you have to offer?”

Oikawa grins ear to ear, heart swelling in anticipation.

“Shitty vodka and two-hundred dollars,” he supplies, cheshire grin still stuck on his face. He takes the gamble, praying that he’ll make rent this month.

Hinata raises his brows, shrugs, and takes a step forward, swiping Oikawa’s bangs from his eyes.

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Oikawa thinks, this is all he ever hoped for, chin held high, charm losing from his every syllable spoken. He is amazing, he is wonderful, _spectacular, spectacular, spectacular._

—

Hinata says, naked save the sheer fabric draped from one elbow to the other, “I’m gonna be honest, this is not what I expected.”

From his easel, Oikawa snorts, looking up to admire the way Hinata’s skin looks under incandescent bulbs, warm tones of honey and orange dancing over olive toned arms. Hinata head is tilted, arms romantic and best at the elbow as he holds them upwards, as if reaching for something in the distance. His neck is elongated, tendons slightly strained despite his relaxed shoulders. His frame is petite; ribs visible under his skin in a way that worries Oikawa somewhere in the back of his mind. The fabric, a shade of babydoll pink, brings out the rosé tones in Hinata’s skin, the pinkness in his cheeks. Toned legs, parting at the knees, toes pointed in the ballet shoes he wears, satin ribbons wrapped loosely up his calves. 

Hinata is natural, the way he breaths into the pose as if it was his own, as fluid as a dancing flame. Oikawa admires with the eye of an artist, painting the saccharine tones of his lips and eyes onto canvas. The sketch of every curve is soon covered in shades of tawny and amber, and with every brushstroke, the painting comes to life, reflecting the image of Hinata in something other than flesh.

“I’m no model,” Hinata tells Oikawa, biting his lips until they’re stained a crimson red. “If that’s what you’re hoping for.”

Oikawa scoffs, rolls his eyes, says, “Do you think I can afford a model?”

Hinata shrugs, the faintest hint of a smile already appearing onto his lips. It’s a beautiful sight, one that Oikawa realizes will become embedded into his memory, burnt onto the back of his eyelids when he closes them in the golden starlight. Hinata’s smile only grows, the image striking Oikawa as pure, glittering gold in the way of natures cosmos. He looks timeless, as if the image of his body could be from the era of Victorian times, yet otherworldly as any constellation Oikawa had ever seen.

As Oikawa blends the shadows of Hinata’s clavicles, the boy speaks up, his voice ringing through the small walls of Oikawa’s flat.

“So tell me, Oikawa-san,” Hinata says, careful to keep his expression the same as he maintains his pose. “Are you starving?”

The question is an implication to his fame and success, one of whether or not Oikawa can make his keep or not. It’s cheeky, and full of childish curiosity that could easily be mistaken for nosiness, but Oikawa doesn't mind.

Oikawa shrugs, and says, “Depends on your definition of hungry.” There's a teasing glint in his eye as he meets Hinata’s. “Just because I’m in a gallery doesn't mean I can always afford what I have.”

Hinata’s composure breaks, and his eyes widen, head whips around to face him in amazement. “ _Gwah?_ You’re _famous_?” he exclaims, missing the second half of Oikawa’s sentence. Perhaps he did hear it, but didn’t care, Oikawa later realizes.

Either way, Oikawa laughs, shaking his head as he dips a brush into a mug of paint water. It has long been stained a murky brown, but the new brush adds a swirl of white, like cream in coffee.

“God, no,” Oikawa tells Hinata. “I’m nothing close to being well known.”

Hinata pouts, sighs dramatically and resumes his pose, head tilted and eyes fixated at something that doesn't exist. Oikawa hums, the returning lull of silence not unwelcome. The gentle sounds of Hinata’s breathing, the swipe of paint across brush. It fills the room with enough noise to keep Oikawa from insanity.

—

It’s later, and Oikawa, true to his word, scrounges up a bottle of vodka, the kind to taste too strong on your tongue, too violent in it’s burning tracks down your throat. Hinata, in all fairness, looks like a lightweight, paper slim figure and dainty fingertips enough to make him seem fair. Oikawa smirks as he passes him the bottle, eyes now wandering over Hinata’s bare thighs as he curls up on the small arm chair in Oikawa’s main room. He has slipped his sweater back on, revealing that it acted as a dress, and wore no pants underneath. He wriggled his bare toes as he took the bottle, their hands brushing as it passes over.

Surprisingly, Hinata unscrews the cap, brings it to his lips and takes a swig, eyes squeezed shut as he does so. He pulls away soon after, face screwed in obvious disgust as he passes the bottle back to Oikawa, scrunched features endearingly cute.

Oikawa can’t help but laugh as he takes the bottle back. “Not one for vodka?”

Hinata shakes his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not straight, no.”

Oikawa snickers, throwing his head back as he leans against the chesterfield. He is sitting on the floor, the couch hardly big enough for two people to sit comfortably, if only Hinata were to move his legs.

(Oikawa doesn’t mind, he looks relaxed splayed out with his eyes tipped towards him.)

Hinata lies above him, head resting on the arm of the sofa. Oikawa catches himself staring at the way Hinata’s eyes are blown wide, observing, as flight as those of a deer. He gulps down a mouthful of vodka, placing the bottle on the floor beside him as the burn slips down to the hole in his chest.

They’re facing the painting of Hinata as it dries, canvas leant against the easel, paints cleared away. It’s romantic, with a renaissance feel to the way Hinata’s bare body compliments the pink of the sheer fabric behind his back and of his ballet slippers, angelically, as if everything draws you back to his face, full of wonder and amazement. Hinata doesn’t seemed fazed by the sight of his body displayed so openly, even now, staring at the painting with much the same look in his eyes. Hinata hums, a smile spreading across his face as he leans forward, snatching up the bottle as he does so.

“It’s _amazing_ ,” he sighs, taking another sip of vodka, his eyes never tearing from the painting. “You’re brilliant, _gwah_ —I can’t even believe it!”

Hinata whips his head around, eyes wild, grin wide as he looks, _stares_ at Oikawa, face full of glee. Oikawa feels his heart falter at a gaze of such intensity, and leans forward, grabbing the bottle and taking a swig to distract his wandering thoughts. 

Hinata is beautiful, he knew when he first saw him, and had plenty of time to be acquainted with the contours of his hips when he painted, but the look of overwhelming happiness is something new, something raw and stunning enough that it makes him do a double take, choke on the vodka as it washes through him like a tsunami, a tsunami of realizing Hinata hasn’t moved since he spoke, that his smile was still bright as ever.

Oikawa, remembering he had to respond, coughs into his hand. He says, “Thank you, Hina-chan, but are you sure you aren't just saying that because it’s of you?”

Hinata seems genuinely puzzled again. “No, why would I?”

Oikawa raises a brow, sipping at the drink once more. “Are you more critical of it because it’s you? I would be.”

Hinata blinks. “I don’t think so, that’d be kind of self absorbed," he says.

Oikawa laughs lightly, handing him the bottle. “Mm, I am a narcissist.”

Hinata giggles at that, blush apparent on his cheeks as he does so, shades of cherry flushing under the apples of his cheeks. Oikawa leans over so that his head rests on the outside of Hinata’s thigh, body warm with the buzz alcohol provides and the heat of Hinata’s body. He doesn't seem to mind at all.

Before Hinata leaves, Oikawa slips him a business card, with the proposal of future favours of the same kind. Hinata grins, the smile devilish, as he scribbles his phone number on a spare sheet of paper. He tucks it between Oikawa’s fingers, leaning up to him, saying, _for if you ever want another kind of favour_ , before backing away, his tongue poking between his teeth.

“Or just to chat!” he calls as he leaves. “I take cream in my coffee!”

“I prefer tea!” Oikawa calls back. “See you, baby!”

He sees Hinata blush at the pet name, but Oikawa is no better, twirling the small piece of paper in his hand as Hinata disappears down the hall. He feels orange burn in the pit of his chest, but blames the sensation on the vodka, slipping back into his apartment with a smile plastered on his face.

—

Oikawa is a whirlwind, Hinata soon learns.

He secretly hoped he would keep the eccentric tone to his voice under wraps, but his tendencies and twitches worm out as they spend time together, hands moving on their own accord as he speaks, scratching up his arms, picking at his cuticles until they are raw. He explains his opinions with feverish passion, even as they sit in a crowded coffee shop in The Village part of the city, the hustle of downtown roaring outside of the café’s door. Hinata watches in awe as Oikawa explains, _brags_ , about the parties, the extravagant bubbling champagne and fountains. Hinata is captivated by the story, leaning forwards onto his elbows to listen as Oikawa speaks.

Today is a day where Oikawa feels like he is more than floating, like his limbs are sparked with electricity, charges rolling through his veins, enough to shock whoever he touches. It shows in the way he speaks, loudly, with the confidence and pretentious attitude he holds so well. Hinata isn’t bugged by it, feeds into his ego with _awes_ and gasps, periodically jumping into the conversation just as excited.

They bounce off of each, energy multiplied and amplified with every phrase exchanged by the pair. Hinata is all smiles, sipping the foam on his coffee as he kicks Oikawa’s foot under the table. Oikawa grins, kicking back as he moves to lean forward not his elbows so that he is Hinata’s height, their noses almost touching. Hinata pouts at the action, making Oikawa laugh, the kind that rips through you before you know it has happened. It’s golden, fiery and glittering in his skin and teeth. It’s a feeling he hopes will stay forever, that’ll never leave him.

When they stop laughing Hinata checks the time on his phone, letting out a strangled whine as he does so. The noise catches Oikawa’s ears, and Oikawa pulls himself from his thoughts as Hinata pouts again, sighing dramatically and throwing his head back.

“I need to go,” he says, his voice annoyed and whining as he slips down from his stool. 

Oikawa makes a sound of offence, scowling as Hinata prepares to leave. “Can’t you stay longer, Shou-chan?”

Hinata shakes his head reluctantly, shoving his hands into his shorts. “I’m two hundred dollars short this week, someone will be at my head if I don’t made it up.”

Oikawa pouts, but lets him leave, waving goodbye through the window as Hinata passes.

Something pricks the interior of his stomach and in a second, Oikawa crashes. The voices around him become too loud, the feeling of air touching him makes his skin crawl, makes him want to scream. A waiter shoots him a friendly smile, but Oikawa ignores him, only scowling. The waiter’s expression turns sour, and Oikawa scoffs at his untucked shirt, flyaway hair and stained pants, He gets up to leave, tip left haphazardly on the table. The feeling of skin crawling remains, working it’s way up his hands to his shoulders, ever present annoyance that makes Oikawa want to scream.

And he does, when he storms back to his apartment, pressing his head into the cushions of his bed, releasing the air from his lungs in a high pitched screech that it was obvious his neighbours could hear. 

And oh god, he _hates_ this, hates the way his esteem snaps at a moment’s notice, letting himself crumble into rubble at the feet of those around him. It’s anger that lies on the surface of his skin, but underneath the crimson is indigo blue, murky waters filed with doubt as Oikawa pulls himself up to his feet, hands instinctively reaching to tangle in his hair. Oikawa tugs on the strands until it hurts, until it pulls him away from the ache in his stomach. His fingers are itching to do something, to destroy and create all at once. He staggers out from his bedroom towards his empty easel, leaning a blank canvas against it. He doesn't think as he begins to paint, watercolours being the first thing he grabs. 

Watercolours are delicate work for soft hands, but today, Oikawa is angry. He paints with a heavy hand, iron slashes across the canvas like blood. The eyes look distressed, and Oikawa decides he likes it, cleans his brush in dirty water as he moves on, thoughts consumed with doing something rather than scratching his arms raw or pulling out his hair. He flicks his brush another time, creating an unrealistic pout of the lips for the expression of the face. Oikawa can’t find it in him to care, and without realizing it, paints an eerie self portrait with ruby red paint staining the neck. 

And artists are, in stereotype, egotistical, self loathing bastards, with their noses in the air and chests puffed, but today is different. Oikawa plays into the artist who can’t tell blood from red oil, can’t be sure if the bruises he’s painted on the picture are too much like his own to be normal. Chills run down his spine, and Oikawa lets out another cry, because _he hates this, he hates this, he hates this._

Oikawa drops the brush, and it clatters to the floor, staining his socks with red. Oikawa takes a step back, falling onto the ground. It brings his legs to his chest, placing his chin on his knees and burrowing away from the screeching reality around him.Oikawa whimpers, closing his eyes, andrepeating: _temporary, temporary, temporary._ It repeats through his head like a methodological mantra, one that is embedded onto the back of his eyes when he shuts them. It is navy like the depths of ocean, vicious and unforgiving, wide enough to swallow you whole.

Oikawa’s breaths are rapid, ripping through him before the oxygen can flow to his head. His vision blurs, head aches, and he feels as if the knot in his throat will strangle his last breath from his lungs. He opens his eyes to tangle his finds in his hair, pulling his head up from his knees. He is sure he looks like a mess, eyes frenzied, brown locks frazzled. 

He flicks his eyes forward, lets them dance across the room. They settle on the painting of Hinata, leaning against another easel in the corner, sheet draped over the corner in a haphazard manner. His heart half aches to call him, fingers twitch to touch his phone lying on the floor. 

He thinks, he could call. He could pick up the phone, and just scream into the receiver rather than empty space and air, no one to hear him but neighbours who can’t bother to care. And he thinks, _Hinata cannot possibly care to listen to me,_ thinks, _he is busy, he will be annoyed—_

The phone rings.

Quicker than he thought he could move, Oikawa picks up the phone, answering in a second, a breathy _hello_ pushing out of his lips the second he picks it up.

_“I am so sorry for ditching today,”_ Hinata groans on the other end. “ _Please, please, pretty please don’t get upset, I really needed the cash.”_

Oikawa hums, body already unwinding at the sound of another voice besides his own. When the line goes silent, he realizes that Hinata is expecting a response, and stumbles upon his words.

“It’s alright, Shou-chan,” Oikawa says quickly, humming at the end of his sentence. 

There was another pause before hint spoke. _“Oikawa, are you drinking?”_

Oikawa snorts internally, casting a look over to the counter where an unopened bottle of red sat. He sighs, debating.

“No,” he replies, “But that sounds like a good idea.”

Oikawa can almost _hear_ Hinata’s pout, the way he scrunches his nose and purses his lips at the suggestion. His chest tightens the thought of him, in clothes too big, disapproving look on his face as he stares Oikawa in the eye.

In the end, Oikawa assures Hinata that he doesn't drink to the point of drunkenness that often, that he won’t touch the bottle in the kitchen despite how it calls to him. Instead, he lies against the cool floor, phone pressed to his ear as he listens to Hinata talk about the dog he had met on his way home, about how he thinks the frost makes the grass feel like sponges beneath his feet. Oikawa listens, grateful that Hinata somehow knows about the numbness that pulls at the edge of his being, that threatens to mute his thoughts as if pulled underwater. And Hinata speaks, and Oikawa tries to picture the spark in his eyes that makes his heart flutter so.

Oikawa thinks, _Hinata, Hinata, Hinata,_ hyper focuses on his voice in the receiver.

—

It’s sunny, but the wind is cold enough to send shivers through Oikawa spine as he walks out of his apartment and onto the streets of the city. He can hear a dog barking in the distance, the cars whizzing past on the nearby expressway. He pulls his jacket closer around him, shoves his hands in his pocket. Oikawa is stubborn, but he knows his hands will be raw well before winter comes if h doesn't get a pair of gloves soon.

Red and orange leaves litter the sidewalks as Oikawa jogs down the steps to the subway station, cold underground air hitting his face in seconds. People bustle by, heads down, bodies rigid, and Oikawa struggles not to be pushed in the crowds as he slips his tokens into the turnstile. The subway stations are always packed, the masses of people proving too much for Oikawa every time he steps on.

By the time the train ride is over, Oikawa is more than happy enough to see the sunlight and cool air again. He raises his chin to the light for a moment before continuing forward to the apartments that litter this side of town, old brick buildings housing the people who cant afford the luxuries of downtown condos. Oikawa hits the buzzer for Hinata’s building, shifting as he waits for the door to unlock.

Hinata lives on the fifth floor, in a mind-blowingly small apartment space. He greets the door with a smile, lets Oikawa step in as he moves to throw a coat over his oversized shirt. On one side of the room, there’s a small kitchenette, with a small fridge and a stove top, one cupboard likely to only house cereal. Hinata’s table is pressed into the corner, two chairs on either side. There is one small couch against the longest wall, and beside it a loft bed with a desk and dresser underneath. The opposite wall has a door leading to a dimly lit bathroom, with leaky facets and a shower that forgets to pump hot water.

Oikawa doesn't mind Hinata’s quaint apartment, and soon, the shorter has slipped on a pair of shoes and is smiling brightly at Oikawa. In a spur of the moment decision, Oikawa reaches down and tangles their hands together, pulling Hinata out of the apartment. Hinata makes an undignified shriek, barely managing to close his door and lock it before Oikawa had dragged him down towards the stair well. 

Hinata laughs, and Oikawa very nearly trips over the last stair at the sound. Oikawa was never religious, but Hinata’s laugh sounds like angels and goddesses and church bells, beautiful and awe inspiring. Hinata notices his expression, and smiles bright enough to blind him, pulling him forwards and back onto the street.

They end up at a thrift store somewhere downtown, and Oikawa immediately makes a noise he is ashamed of at the shoes in front of him. Hinata laughs, and the pair sift through the shoes for ones that fit him, pretending it’s Louis Vuitton instead of Goodwill. Neither cares that it's the only clothes they can afford, instead focusing on the fact that Oikawa manages to find a pair of nude platform heels for ten dollars that fit him.

It’s shopping relief for the pair that barely make rent, Hinata gushing over a bomber jacket that’s much too big for him. Oikawa buys it for him purely because of the way Hinata’s eyes light up when he puts it on, and the reaction he gets as Hinata thanks him. Oikawa buys a pair of pleated pale blue pants, and Hinata grins when he finds a long, tutu like skirt. It’s a relief for Oikawa to smile like this, to feel a weight lifted of him when he’s around Hinata. His heart swells each time Hinata’s eyes widen in glee, every time Hinata smiles and laughs. It’s blinding, it makes him double take and stumble over his words.

Oikawa insists on carrying Hinata’s bag when they leave, slinging it around his elbow as they wander back towards Hinata’s apartment. Oikawa is making a joke, swinging his and Hinata’s arm as they walk, and Hinata giggles before sighing and collapsing onto a nearby bench with a wince.

“Sorry,” he says, “I’m just a bit sore.”

Something in Oikawa’s throat tightens, but he smiles through the sensation, sitting down beside Hinata. Hinata leans over and presses his head to Oikawa’s shoulder, nuzzling in place, and Oikawa’s heart almost stops at the affection. It’s only when Hinata looks up at him with a pout and says _you know, you don’t have to be so tense_ that he lets his shoulders touch and tucks an arm around him, settles into the feeling of soft hair tickling his neck. Hinata smells like mint and hotel shampoo, the kind of generic scent made personal only by the aroma of coffee that always seems to stick to him. Oikawa breaths deeply, and, just for a moment, forgets everything else except the boy in his arms.

—

Oikawa slips on gloves over his hands, and makes his way to the alley between Yonge and Bay Street where he knows Hinata will be. His art bag is heavy on his shoulder, digging between the bone as he jogs down the steps. Oikawa crosses his fingers behind his hand and hopes that he won’t be occupied when he arrives, and is lucky; Hinata is slipping money into his pockets when Oikawa arrives. Oikawa flashes a peace sign and sticks his tongue out from his teeth, grinning towards Hinata before leaning up against the wall next to him.

“Yahoo, Shou-chan,” he says, leaning down to press their foreheads together. “Miss me?”

Hinata smiles for a brief moment before it turns to a pouted scowl. He seems confused, furrowing his brow and narrowing his eyes

“Oikawa why are you here?” Hinata asks, cocking his head.

“Old times sake?” Oikawa says, shrugging. “Come back to my place.”

Hinata sighs, a noise Oikawa wasn’t expecting from him. He turns to face Hinata, whose face is fallen, eyes flickering from Oikawa from the ground.

“Oikawa, I need money,” Hinata says, and his tone breaks Oikawa’s heart. It’s broken and choked out, every syllable sounding like an apology Oikawa doesn't need to hear. 

“I can pay you,” Oikawa tells him. “How much do you need?” 

“I can’t have you do that,” Hinata says. “It’s too much, and you barely made rent this month.”

“I don’t care,” Oikawa says, moving so that he faces Hinata. “I can give you what you need.”

“Five hundred,” Hinata says, looking up at Oikawa, pouting his lip in stubbornness.

Oikawa doesn't hesitate in nodding, grabbing Hinata’s arm and tugging him out of the alley.

“I need a reference,” he says, pulling him through the streets, “For a water colour painting.”

It’s late, and the streets are busy with nightlight and cabs, carrying partygoers to and from their homes. Oikawa walks past, instead leading Hinata towards the heart of the city, past the stadiums and amphitheatres towards the aquarium.

“I know a guy,” Oikawa tells Hinata. 

The lines are nonexistent, and a pair of lanky employees wink at Oikawa, letting him and Hinata through the line without question. Hinata drops his mouth his awe, stubbornness fading as Oikawa pulls him past the tanks, pausing at the tanks that swerve overhead.

And pause, Oikawa must, because Hinata in enamoured with the rays and sharks as they drift above him, resting on the top of the tank and exposing their underbellies. Oikawa comes to a halt as Hinata presses his nose to the glass, pointing at the hammerhead as it bumps towards him. Suddenly, they’re children,children with lanky limbs and bellies almost as empty as their stomachs. 

And Hinata is teal, mysterious an enamoured by the ocean and all its beauty. They don’t mean to stay in the tunnel tanks for as long as they do, but it’s hard not to fall in love with the fish and the boy with ginger hair and a smile so wide it must hurt. He is every shade of the ocean, calming and strong as he cranes his neck to watch.

When they finally leave the shark tanks, they come cross a dark room, illuminated only by the glow from various tanks. Hinata freezes, looking down at his feet.

The floor is a tank, home to jellyfish swimming hypnotizing circles around Hinata’s toes. Shades of blue wrap around the corners of his eyes, and the boy spirals around in the empty room to admire the mirrored wall, the seemingly endless space around him. He is drawn to the magenta light, and in instants, his nose is pressed to the glass as jellyfish pass by, tentacles swaying as they float. 

Oikawa chokes on his breath from the way Hinata’s shoulders drop as he looks up at the tank, eyes tracing the paths of every fish as it swims by. His eyes are as intergalactic as saucers and twice as wide, lips flushed and parted as he watches with earnest.

And the way Hinata smiles is green, because Oikawa can feel the tip of a spear being pressed through his chest as Hinata mouth amazing at the sight before him. He is completely silent save the small exhales that fog the glass of the tank with his breath. And Oikawa, despite the wonders around him, cannot tear his eyes from Hinata, and the way he traces a finger to follow the deadly spiralling threads that follow behind a jellyfish. He cocks his head ever so slightly, and the violet lighting catches the contours of his neck, the deep purple spots at the base, the untouched tan near his jaw. Everything about him is ethereal, from the way his eyelashes brush the apples of his cheeks, to how his chest slows with his breathing, in time with the movements of the water creatures.

It takes a moment for Oikawa to remember why he came and pull a fold up easel from his bag and stand a piece of canvas on it. Hinata doesn't move as he sets up, eyes reflecting the lights enough to no longer be called brown as he watches. Oikawa nearly drops the water bottle he’s using for paints, but manages to balance his pallet once more.

The room is too dark to properly see, but Oikawa does not dare fish a flashlight from his coat in fear of shattering the seal of the alternate reality Hinata has pulled him into. He instead prays that the minimal shades he is working with turn okay, that he’ll be able to capture a quarter of the beauty that is the way Hinata looks under the lights, with his lips brushing the glass, eyes bright as a star at night. He glides his brush against the page, and watches as it comes just as much to life as the boy before him. 

Oikawa will deny that his heart rose to his throat, enough so that breathing became difficult. _It’s a secret_ , he whispers, at the dead of night, thinking only of ginger hair and parted lips.

—

It’s not dating, whatever they’re doing. They go out together, often, sharing conversations over drinks in dive bars or foreign films with subtitles underneath. They call on the days they don't see each other, text before one of them runs out of minutes. Oikawa hasn’t seen Hinata naked since they met.

Sometimes, conversation isn’t lighthearted as it always is, and Oikawa lets his voice crack, lets something slip his lips that he shouldn’t have. 

Each time, Hinata’s face drops, and he worms his way closer to Oikawa, says:

“Are you alright?”

And each time, Oikawa laughs, bitter and choked, tearing his eyes away from Hinata’s face of concern. He responds:

“Shou-chan, I’m perfect.”

Hinata follows with a soft touch of his hand, or throwing his small body onto Oikawa, clinging onto him in a hug. Touches of such sort grow common, the brush of fingertips while walking, sliding a hand over the other’s thigh while they eat. It drives Oikawa mad, the constant push and pull, the way touches and glances linger a moment too long to be accidental.

It’s always been this way.

Hinata tries to reprimand Oikawa when he shoves down his problems, laughs them off into a bottle of cheap white wine with swallowed tears. It doesn’t work: Oikawa dances around the issue, charms his way out of talking about it, the overbearing thing that lurks behind him.

Hinata is no better, he learns. Some things remain unspoken, but understood, and when Hinata shows at his door with tear tracks slipping down his cheeks, Oikawa welcomes him with open arms, lets him cover himself in yellow paint in attempt to remain bright.

Oikawa thinks, he is already golden, but navy undertones lurk under his skin. Blue and Yellow, golden and navy. That night, Hinata cries into his shoulder, clutches onto him light he is his only tether in space. It’s a lot of things, Oikawa learns, that built up onto his back before he shattered. He supposes his mother isn’t the only one who disproves of his lifestyle. 

Hinata falls asleep in Oikawa’s clothes, daffodil paint still spread across his cheek. Oikawa lets him curl onto his chest, making a deep breath to slow his heartbeat. They sleep on a double bed, close enough that Oikawa’s breath can tickle Hinata’s nose, and he doesn't doubt that his heart is a thundering _thump_ to the boy snuggled into him.

_You are golden, you are golden, you are golden,_ Oikawa whispers. Hinata hears, but thinks it’s a dream.

—

Oikawa finds pointe shoes in Hinata’s apartment.

He doesn't meant to snoop, but when he sees the satin shade of babydoll pink peaking from a black bag on the ground, curiosity takes hold, and in moments he was rummaging through the bag.

They are small, and worn from use, fabric faded at the toes to a greying rose. The ribbons are wrinkled, and look frayed at the ends, crinkled from constant tying. The shoes look well loved, like someone cared enough to use them so much that they would wear. 

The bag is home to a few other things. A leotard, with long sleeves, several pairs of black and pink tights, leggings, and thick, thigh high socks. Buried under the heaps of clothes, some cleaner than others, were another pair of shoes, in black, much more pristine.

It’s only when Oikawa hears a cough that he sees Hinata step out from the bathroom, face paled, caught in the headlights like a deer in the night.

And Oikawa can’t help the smile that works onto his face as he thumbs the smooth satin ribbon, shaking his head.“I never knew you did ballet,” he says, looking up at Hinata. “It suits you.”

Hinata’s face flushes pink in an instant, and he swoops down, shoving the shoes back into the bag and kicking it across the room. Oikawa pouts at the action, and reaches forwards to grab Hinata’s hips, dragging him into his lap. Hinata squawks as Oikawa turns him so that they are face to face, Hinata angling his chin upwards to meet Oikawa’s eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Oikawa asks, moving to slip a hand into Hinata’s hair. “I’d love to watch you sometime.”

Hinata averts his eyes licks his lips and shrugs. He mumbles emoting under his breath that Oikawa can’t catch, but looks back up at him, biting his lip before speaking.

“I can barely afford tuition,” Hinata tells him. “And my grades aren't good enough for scholarships. So I’m studying dance, with what money my mom gave me and whatever I make in alleyways with strange men.”

And Oikawa understands, understands the way it is to choose between food, rent, and happiness. His heart aches, because the navy is staining the yellow black and brown, is mixing with the bright hues that lie upon his skin. Oikawa holds him closer, inhales the scent of hotel shampoo and mint, prays to the universe that she gives them a winning hand in whatever sick game she deals out.

—

Hinata is standing in front of his mirror, adjusting his thin tie around his neck. Oikawa moves from behind him, grabbing his small hands to guide them through the motions, until it’s slipped secure around Hinata’s throat. Their eyes meet in the mirror for half a second before Oikawa winks and Hinata stick out his tongue. They hold the gas for another pregnant second before Oikawa moves to slip on his jacket.

It’s a big day, and Oikawa is shaking in nervousness. Gallery exhibit openings, and the galas that follow are always intense to prepare, but a new weight sits steady on his shoulders now that one of his paintings has made it’s way into the exhibit. He takes a deep breath, running another hand through his hair, mindful of the spray to keep it in place. He’d rub his eyes, but the intricate eyeshadow he had spent time on was enough to stop him from smudging black eyeliner and brown shimmer all over his face.

Hinata turns to face him, slipping a hand up his chest. His shirt is an off black colour, with black flowers swirling in a pattern around it. Hinata quirks his the corner of his mouth, remembering the day they bought it together. Oikawa lets himself relax, releasing the breath from his lips. Hinata’s smile widens as he hooks his fingers into Oikawa’s belt loops, yanking him forwards.

“You’ll do fine,”Hinata says, tilting his chin to look up at Oikawa.

Oikawa sputters, the sudden intimacy of Hinata’s actions enough to make him flush a deep magenta. Hinata sticks out his tongue at Oikawa’s flustered face, moves his hands to push back on his chest. Oikawa fake scowls, throwing his head back with a whine. Hinata responds with a dramatic sigh, straightening the pleats in his skirt before moving to wrap Oikawa in a hug, nuzzling his face into his chest.

They leave soon after, Oikawa’s leg bouncing as the taxi pulls closer and closer to the venue. Hinata places a hand on his knee, and looks up to him with soft eyes and a small smile. Oikawa licks his lips, prays that Hinata will like the painting he chose. Would he be surprised to see himself amongst other works of art where he belongs? Will his eyes go mystic and wide, smile full blown and shine golden like the sun? _Will he, will he, will he?_

Its instinct to link their hands together as they leave the car, threading fingers and holding tight. Hinata bumps into his arm, turns to smile up to him. Oikawa’s heart seizes, and he feels himself blush as they enter the gallery, smooth marble stairs flecked with black leading them down the hall. A woman offers them chutes of champagne, and Oikawa accepts with a charming smile, slipping into his bones. He hands one to Hinata, who parts his lips in surprise. He isn’t used to free drinks, and neither was Oikawa, but it comes natural as he sips away at the bubbly drink. Hinata follows in suit, eyes widening at the taste of alcohol that doesn't burn like vinegar on his tongue. They're both smiles and giggles as they step into the main room, walls lined with artworks yet to be revealed.

A woman approaches Oikawa as soon as they enter the main hall, her glasses resting low on her nose. Kiyoko Shimizu, the director at a dance school, with a taste for contemporary art and jazz music. She is soft spoken, but makes idle chatter with Hinata as well. Oikawa’s smile sends sparks to everyone, or Hinata at least, who clings onto him in a room full of strangers.

They sip on their champagne and observe the paintings, Hinata whining to observe his. Oikawa keeps his lips tight, slips him a Mona Lisa smile and pulls him past a large painting with people crowded around. Hinata in enamoured by the various pieces of art, sculptures of stone. Oikawa talks about each one, knowing the artists and stores behind each one. They’re stopped often as they look around, people congratulating Oikawa, gushing about his art. Oikawa responds with smiles and light laughs, holding Hinata’s hand tighter with each person that comes and goes.

They come to a full circle, standing in front of a painting obscured by people. Hinata looks over to Oikawa, with a knowing smile on his face. Oikawa clears his throat, and turns away ushering Hinata through the throngs of people to see the masterpiece hung on the wall.

And Hinata’s breath is taken away, because the painting is of him, naked with pink drapes behind his back, arms extended, eyes wondrous. The very same painting from the night they first met, when Hinata had slipped his body bare and gave trust to a person he had never met, an artist with shitty vodka and oil paints. 

The painting attracts the people in the room like flies to light, swarming around it, looking with looks of awe. Some praise Oikawa, offering their compliments, but he pays no attention. Instead, he watches how Hinata’s eyes water, how the smile on his face continues to grow so wide it could tear. Oikawa can feel his heart tightening.

“It’s beautiful,” Hinata says. “Thank you.”

“You’re beautiful,” Oikawa responds, placing his hands on Hinata’s shoulders.

Hinata pushes forwards, wrapping his arms around Oikawa’s waist, Oikawa laughs lightly, squeezing him tightly, pulling Hinata close enough that he can smell mint. Hinata collapses all his weight into him, and they rock back and forth, forgetting the people around them, with pricey drinks and pricey shoes. Oikawa doesn’t care, focuses on the sunshine that’s wiping tears on his jacket.

Oikawa thinks about kissing him. 

(He wishes he had.)

_What are we_ lays low in the air, lingering among other thoughts. It is unanswered.

—

Hinata shows up to Oikawa’s house covered in bruises, half asleep on his feet and sobbing.

Oikawa catches him in the doorway, carrying him to the love seat squished into the corner of shelving room. Hinata has yet to speak, but just the sight of him shaking apart is enough to make Oikawa sick. He lets the younger curl into his shirt, cries muffled through his chest as Oikawa rubs his back.

It hurts, it hurts _so much_ to watch someone who smiles so much be this sad. Oikawa doesn’t know what to say beside the _I love yous_ that become choked as he speaks, the knot in his throat stopping them from coming out as words. Hinata’s breathing begins to slow, his breaths catching as he removes himself from Oikawa’s chest to look him in the eye. Oikawa swipes a thumb under his eye, red and puffy, flicks a tear away from his cheek. His face almost as blotchy as his neck, but in hues of red instead of brown, blush instead of bruises. Oikawa swallows, _doesn't think about it, doesn't think about it._

“They kicked me out of the ballet program,” Hinata says quietly. “They found out how I was paying for it.”

And Oikawa has to hold himself back from screaming and kissing Hinata at once, from pulling out his hair in frustration and rage. Instead, he utters I’m _so sorry_ and pulls him into another hug, rocking him back and forth as Hinata hiccups out more words, a tangled mess of syllables that hardly make sense. 

“I’m sorry for coming here like this,” Hinata tells Oikawa. “You’re the only person I have, and the best friend I could ask for.”

Oikawa smiles, and holds Hinata tighter. The word _friend_ echoes through his heart and tears a hole through his chest, but he ignores it, keeps his mind with Hinata in his apartment and out of the stratosphere.

—

Oikawa thinks, _stupid stupid stupid._

(Artists are, by nature, selfish.)

He hasn’t talked to Hinata in a week, _stupid stupid_ , the night with him spent in his arms looped in his head. Of course, he thinks, of course he had thought that they were more than that, more than friends who visited each other with smiles. Oikawa pops the cork on a new bottle of wine, doesn't even bother with a glass as he brings it to his lips and took a swig, grimacing at the taste. 

He leans back against his bed, closing his eyes with a groan. _Friends, just friends._ Do friends pose nakedfor paintings, hang framed art worth thousands in galleries in big cities? Do friends slip kisses onto necks when they hug, warm breath against the crook of your neck while he sleeps on your chest, body limp with sleep? Oikawa grips at the sheets, holds his face in one hand, using the other to clutch onto the wine bottle. 

He feels like shit, for the feelings he’s washing down with wine, for Hinata, who’s calls he’s ignored for the past week, who he’s probably driving insane, and, _god_ , he feels like nothing. Oikawa bites his cheek until he tastes blood, iron and alcohol. The mixture makes him feel like puking, but he keeps it down, the hole burning in his chest sending pangs throughout him.

And artists own their faults and feelings, claiming name to the blame. His fault, his fault, skin tingling enough to feel like knives. Oikawa remembers Van Gough, who ate yellow paint to be happy, and all Oikawa can think of is ginger hair and smiles as bright as the sun.

_I love him, I love him, I love him,_ he thinks.

—

He is shaking, enough that he almost drops his coffee.

Oikawa climbs the steps to Hinata’s apartment, tripping on the lip of the top stair. He’s nursing the end of a hangover with black coffee, too strong for his liking, but it keeps his eyes from dropping and squinting at the light. He pulls himself up, wrinkling his nose at the coffee stain he’s left on the carpet of the hallway. He tries to ignore it, continuing to walk forwards to the door of Hinata’s apartment.

Oikawa's breaths shake as much as his hand as he brings his knuckles to the door, letting them hover over the wood. He wants to turn back, wants to leave and let the wound fester, but instead, he raps the door twice, holding his breath when he can hear footsteps padding towards the door,

Hinata opens the door wearing onto a shirt that drapes close to his knees. His eyes are circles in purple and blue, tiredness matching the marks on Oikawa’s under eyes. When he sees Oikawa, his eyes brighten, only for a second, before he grabs the door and heaves to slam it. Oikawa catches it with his foot, wincing at the pain.

“Please,” Oikawa says, prying open the door. “I just want to apologize.”

“For what?” Hinata spits, already close to tears. “For ignoring me after I spill my problems, or the fact that you can’t share your own?”

“Both,” Oikawa chokes, knot in his throat already growing. “Please Hinata—”

“God,” Hinata interrupts, letting go of the door to grip his hair with both hands. “I can’t believe I’m in love with an _asshole_ like you.”

Oikawa freezes. The silence is deafening for one moment before he speaks, world crashing around him.

“What?” He asks, not believing his ears.

Tears track down Hinata’s face, and as he wipes his eyes, he laughs. “You’re so mean, Tooru, I can’t—”

“You’re in love with me?” Oikawa is incredulous, leaning forwards through the frame, cup dropped on the floor.

Hinata sniffs, looks up and meets him in the eye. “Yes, Hinata Shouyou, the whore, the prostitute, in love with the artist. What a love story.”

And Oikawa ignores the hole ripping through space in his heart, and leans down, capturing Hinata’slips in his own. He grabs his chin, lifts it up to meet his, moving on arm to hold him tight to his chest. Hinata freezes for a moment longer before he moves his lips against Oikawa’s, mouth soft and pliant. He melts to Oikawa's touch, moving his own arms up to wrap around Oikawa's neck, hands cool against his skin. Hinata tastes like salt from their tears, and Oikawa reckons he must taste like coffee and the remnants of red wine, but neither cares. Instead, they stay in each other’s arms, swaying back and forth in a mixture of orange and blue.

—

Things aren't perfect like they are in the movies, but the small things make it better.

Hinata falls asleep on Oikawa’s chest, breathing steady, wearing the oversized shirts he loves so much. Only now those shirt belongs to Oikawa, splattered in shades of chartreuse and turquoise. It's a small move to his apartment, but it takes the edge off them both, and soon, rent isn't impeding doom, and meals become more than stale bread and water.

Sometimes, Hinata will let Oikawa watch him dance. Hinata has a part time job at a dance studio, the one Kiyoko owns. He’s allowed to participate in the classes as well, but when he isn’t, he works front desk, answering calls with a cheery voice. He’s happier now, when he’s twirling in a room surrounded by mirrors. Oikawa spends the day in the studio sketching the lean bodies in their leotards and tights, admiring the tutu’s that don some waists. But Oikawa can’t tear his eyes from Hinata, pretty in pale pink. He catches Oikawa staring and blows him a kiss, Oikawa’s face turning red in seconds. The blonde girl beside him giggles, and Oikawa ducks his head and finishes shading.

It’s still hard. Oikawa hasn’t quite gotten accustom to slitting himself open and pouring out things he’d rather hide away, but Hinata worms those things out of him, listens with attentive ears and soft touches. Oikawa was never good with words, but Hinata seems to understand what he means when he says he can’t stop himself from screaming some days.

Oikawa paints a picture of the life he wants, the one he has right now. He paints it bright like the sun, and warm like Hinata’s smile. Hinata curls up into his side like they did that first night, sitting on the floor, and watching paint dry.

Oikawa thinks, how lucky he is, to be loved like this.

—

_"Nature's first green is gold,_

_Her hardest hue to hold._

_Her early leaf's a flower;_

_But only so an hour._

_Then leaf subsides to leaf._

_So Eden sank to grief,_

_So dawn goes down to day._

_Nothing gold can stay.”_

_-Robert Frost_

**Author's Note:**

> aaaAAAAAA  
> thank you for reading!!! comments and kudos are super appreciated, and you can always come chat on my tumblr spacegaykj


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